


yesterday is dead and gone

by lemonsweet



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Ambiguously Gendered Protagonist, Angst, Depression, Gen, I don't plan for the Rick/Morty relationship to FEATURE though it will make an APPEARANCE, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lots of Morties, Lots of Ricks, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Underage Drinking, the Thing about 2nd Person is that it's Very Easy to avoid all those pesky pronouns 8)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsweet/pseuds/lemonsweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein a Morty takes charge of the situation, and voluntarily enters a reassignment program for Ricks and Morties at the Citadel of Ricks.</p><p>Unfortunately, due to a recent tragic and unforseen epidemic of frat-Rick-cides, there's a bit of a backlog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your family is grieving.  They're concerned about you, and you don't don't blame them.  You're going through life on autopilot, and you can almost see it like an out-of-body experience: you sleep in, you roll out of bed and stare at the ceiling, you shuffle through whatever obligations life throws at you for the day with a vacant look on your face, napping frequently and sleeping early.  Sometimes you'll start crying uncontrollably when you're not even thinking about anything sad.  You know it's eerie, and honestly?  You're scaring yourself, a little.

You'd say you were numb if you didn't constantly feel like screaming.

Your parents don't say anything about you missing school (though they're sure to voice their concerns soon enough).  School had been getting better, even if it was boring, and hanging out with Rick outside of school made some things easier.  You were always picking up new words just by hanging out with him.

When your parents leave you outside the principal's office to discuss the situation, you press your ear against the door, and you learn the word "bereavement".

You're still learning things from Rick, even now.

No one dares ask you how it happened, and that suits you just fine -- every time you so much as think about it your throat closes up, and it takes you a while to get back to a remotely functional place again.

Mom takes it really hard.  You can tell she wants to coddle you because of it, but she also wants to give you the space you need -- or maybe your bouts of uncontrollable crying and dissociation make her uncomfortable.  It's not like you can tell, and you don't have the mental or emotional energy to devote to finding out which it is.

Summer takes it almost as hard as you.  She's mostly at her boyfriend's house, these days, and you don't really blame her.  The atmosphere in the house is oppressive, and no one dares touch anything in the garage in case an invention of Rick's causes a crisis on the galactic scale that he isn't around to fix.

That he'll never be around to fix again.

You spend a lot of time in the garage, and no one in your family has the heart to tell you that you shouldn't -- tell you that you're dwelling, or that you're not letting yourself move on, or that the stuff in here is dangerous.

This afternoon you're sitting in Rick's rolling chair, running your hands along the edges of the portal gun.  He hardly ever went anywhere without it, and now he's gone -- but it's still here.  If you let it warm in your palm for a long time, you can put it in your opposite hand and pretend that he handed it to you for safe-keeping a few moments ago.

It's hard to believe he's gone when you once saw hundreds of him in the same place.

At that thought, your fingers pause in the path they're tracing along the portal gun's worn edges.

The device in your hand has long since lost its charge, but there's a charging dock in here somewhere and a way to figure out the history of locations navigated with it.  Rick also keeps ( _kept_ , you remind yourself) addresses scribbled here and there on blueprints and scraps of paper, and the whiteboard, and if you're lucky you can accomplish what you want to do with just a single charge.

You stand abruptly and set aside the portal gun to begin your search.

If you weren't so focused while you were rummaging through the garage, you would marvel at how you're moving with a sense of purpose for the first time... for the first time since Rick's--

You find the charging dock.  You set it up in one of the wall outlets, and you begin gathering all the things that look like they could be addresses.

This occupies you for about an hour, and by the time you've gotten a decent number of them you can hear your family shuffling around in the dining room.

It must be almost dinner time, you think.

You've been in the garage all afternoon again.

You tuck away all the scraps of paper you've collected so nobody else catches sight of them accidentally, then you gather your nerve and shuffle out of the garage to see about dinner.

It is a familiar affair, and an unpleasant one.  After you force yourself to eat despite your long-absent appetite, you mumble an excuse to remain in your room for the rest of the evening and leave them glancing at one another in concern.

You feel a little bad.

You love your family.  They just lost Rick -- and they'll be even more upset when they realize what you're about to do.

But you're not strong enough to stay here without Rick.

You go upstairs and begin packing your things.

\---

You wake yourself up at 2:00 in the morning, and you're struck with a pang of nostalgia when you realize this is about the time Rick would always come harass you in a drunken stupor.  It's early, and you're tired, so you let yourself spill some tears over the thought as you double- and triple-check your backpack.

All your school things have been emptied out onto the floor, to be replaced with a couple different shirts, pants, all the underwear and socks you own, and your phone and charger -- you're not sure how useful it'll be where you're going, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

Satisfied so far, you shoulder the bag and creep into the bathroom for your toothbrush and other toiletries.

"Morty?"

You nearly jump straight out of your skin and into the afterlife when Summer says your name.  Your mind is scrabbling desperately.  Was she not at her boyfriend's house tonight?  No, that doesn't matter -- you need to focus on what to say so she doesn't get suspicious, or wake up Mom and Dad.

"H-Hey, Summer," you whisper, mindful of the hour and your (hopefully) sleeping parents.  "I uh, I'm a-a-almost done in here..."

"It's fine, I don't need the bathroom, I just thought I heard..."  She frowns at you from the doorframe.  "Why do you have your school bag?" she says.

Your face heats, and you thank her looming shadow for blotting out the color.  "I-I thought I'd, I might go to school today.  I couldn't sleep, so... after I'm done in here I'm gonna put my bag by the door."

Was that believable?  Would _you_ believe that?  Your thoughts are rushing so quickly you can't tell any more.  You bite your lip as the dim light casts shadows across Summer's furrowing brow.

She shakes her head.  Your stomach drops.  "Look, Morty," she begins, and you wring your hand into the strap of your backpack, "I know Mom and Dad keep dropping hints that you should go back to school as soon as possible, but...  Whatever happened is obviously giving you a hard time, and you should take as much time as you need.  School will still be there after all this is... less recent."  She scratches her scalp through her sleep-tousled hair.  "Does that make sense?"

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod.  You weren't really prepared for this conversation, but you're so, so grateful she hasn't caught on to what you're doing.  "Yeah, I under -- understand.  Th-Thanks, Summer.  But I, I-I-I think I can really be okay today?"

She smiles down at you, and it just makes you feel worse.  "If you say so.  Do whatever you think is best, okay?"  Tentatively, she places a hand on your shoulder, and the foreign contact makes you realize that _this is the last time you'll ever see her_.

Not caring for a moment about the sound it'll make, you drop your bag and throw your arms around her.  You're in the midst of a growth spurt, you're sure of it, but you're still not as tall as Summer is, and the curve of her cheek presses comfortingly against your messy hair.

You feel your face getting wet, and Summer gasps when she realizes you're crying.  "Oh, Morty," she says, and tightens the embrace.  You've honestly never been closer to Summer than this -- physically or emotionally -- and it kills you that this is what it took.  That it took Rick...

Maybe in another reality, where you're stronger, you stay with Summer, and you help each other become even stronger.

You take a deep, snotty breath and pull away, scrubbing your face with your arm as you do.  "S-Sorry," you murmur, but Summer just shakes her head.  "Um, I think I need to be by myself.  For a while.  But I, uh.  I -- I love you, S-Summer."

"I love you too, you little shit," she says, and she ruffles your hair before turning back down the hall.  "Try and get some sleep."

"Y-Yeah," you say to the empty hall.

It's strange, standing alone in your dark house on the precipice of what you're about to do.  When Summer pulls her bedroom door shut behind her softly, it makes you feel...  you forget the word.  You feel like a shipwreck with a torn and scorched banner waving in the wind.

You make it all the way down to the kitchen before you feel comfortable breathing again.

Though you weren't expecting anyone to be awake at this early hour, if you _had_ imagined how that could have gone, then... that would've fallen under "worse than expected, but in an unexpected way".

You stuff your bag full of snacks and sniffle a little.  The shelf life on this stuff is pretty long, and you can still imagine the way Rick mumbled something about "brain food" around a mouthful of fig newtons when he put them there.

You aren't sure why your emotions are so all over the place.  You anticipated sadness, obviously, but it seems like every little thing is making your mood do a complete 180.

Maybe going on a couple adventures to get your adrenaline running will set you right?

With your ill-gotten eats, you enter the garage as quietly as you can and retrieve the fully charged portal gun from its docking station.  You shove the docking station into your bag in what little space remains, and you struggle to zip it completely closed.

The portal gun is warm from being plugged in, and the worn-down handle sits comfortably in your palm.

You take aim for the wall of the garage.

You fire.

And then suddenly there is a portal before you, the likes of which you've gone through more times than you can count.  And it's not the first time, but it's one of potentially many more to come --

That is, going through a portal without Rick by your side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! I honestly have no idea how long this is going to get, so please bear with me while I figure it out.
> 
> I gotta do a lot of world-building before the next chapter debuts, but I hope you enjoy it when it does!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8 Sep, 9pm EST: made some significant tweaks to the conversation between L-122 and D-15 Omicron-6 at the end of the chapter.

This is turning out to be more difficult than you anticipated.

It's easier when the Council brings in Rick because they think he's done something wrong -- they always bring you straight to the people in charge, and Rick always gets to say his piece, even if no one wants to hear it.

Now you're here on your own, and you're not really sure what to do.  Everyone's eyes pass over you like you're part of the scenery, and you haven't worked up the nerve to speak to anyone yet.  Furthermore, and maybe this goes without saying on a regular day, but everyone on the Citadel of Ricks is traveling in groups of two at least -- if it's not a Rick and a Morty, then it's two Ricks and two Morties, or a pair of Ricks.  No one is alone like you are.  It unnerves you.

Logically, you know you can always bail.  The portal gun has a lot of charge left to go before you'll need to find an outlet and charge it.  But Summer and your parents will be furious with you.  It was so, so selfish of you to leave them after what happened, but you couldn't just  _stay_...

Your emotions are beginning to overwhelm you, and your backpack is digging into your shoulders uncomfortably.  You sidle into the first place you see with chairs so you can take a load off for a while and gather your thoughts.

"Evening," a voice says, and you glance up from where you're setting your bag down gently by the barstool.

"I-Is it evening?" you ask faintly as you slide onto the stool.

The Morty behind the counter glances up at the clock on the wall.  "Yeah, just about happy hour, actually.  You've got good timing!"

You look around: there's a Rick at the opposite end of the bar looking at something on a phone, but that's it for the bar's patrons.  Wasn't happy hour supposed to be when drinks were cheaper?  Why wasn't it more crowded?  "I... guess," you say.  You place your hands on the shiny blue bartop: it's glossy, and smooth to the touch.

You thought it would be more disorienting to be speaking with an alternate universe's version of yourself, but your aimless wandering around the Citadel may have caused you to subconsciously adjust to a world full of Ricks and Morties.  You're taking note of the differences between the both of you, rather than the similarities -- like how his haircut is a bit shorter and cleaner than yours, and the way he barely stutters at all when he speaks.

He seems at ease as he mixes a drink which, when it's finished, sparkles like a star field and fizzes like the contents of a shaken soda can.  Mesmerized, you watch as he brings it across the bar to the waiting Rick.  As the Rick's fingers curl around the flask, froth spills over his hand and onto the bartop.  He lifts the drink to his lips -- inexplicably, its  _colors are changing_ , and you can't help but stare as if you're watching a magic trick --

and in doing so, you inadvertently make eye contact with the Rick as he swallows a mouthful of his drink.

Your heart clenches in your chest, and you quickly look away and begin berating yourself internally.  Maybe it's silly to be surrounded by Ricks and only balk at the thought of making eye-contact, but by now you've been desensitized to their bodies -- it's the familiar looks, and that  _recognition_  -- that's what you can't bear to see.  It shouldn't hurt this much, you think, but it's.  It's too soon.

"So what'll you have?" the Morty interrupts your self-destructive train of thought politely.

"Um."  You fidget with the hoop at the top of your backpack.  "How do you guys... pay for stuff around here?"  
  
"Oh, you're new!"  This information seems to excite the bartender, but the fact that he vocalizes it so loudly makes you flinch.  "Well, you know, pretty much any intergalactic legal tender is fine.  American dollars, Galactic Federation credits, flerbos, schmeckles...  Actually, the schmeckle is down,so I wouldn't recommend using  _that._   But hey, tell you what," he says with a lopsided smile.  "Don't go telling everyone, but I'll -- I'll spot you your first drink.  You look like you could use one, if you don't mind me saying."

Maybe you shouldn't be surprised that a bar in the Citadel of Ricks doesn't observe any known drinking laws -- and now that you think of it, the only legal procedure you're familiar with are those that govern Ricks and Morties being brought in for court dates.  It occurs to you, not for the first time, that you're in a really inopportune position and ought to take some effort to figure out how this place works.

"You should take him up on that," a gruff voice says, and you jump slightly in your seat.  The Rick from across the bar has relocated himself while you were distracted -- he's actually two barstools away, and you appreciate the consideration of the distance, but the implicit solicitation in his approaching you makes you feel like squirming.

At the very least, his voice is  _much_  different than your Rick's, and the distinction there is a comfort -- helps you keep them differentiated in your mind.  It's low and gravely like a sore throat, and even apart from that -- he's giving you a look your Rick has never given you.  There's a small, genuine-seeming smile on his face, and his eyebrow is lifted gently on his brow in -- not a challenging way, but... questioning?  Overall it gives off a teasing vibe, and that familiarity is a discomfort, but the rest of it that's different helps soothe your aching chest.

"Um, this may be obvious, but I don't really... drink.  Much," you add.  You aren't trying to cast doubt on your lack of experience -- you just want it to be clear that you're not... opposed to the idea.

"Oh!  A fresh palate!"  the Morty cheers.  He turns to the Rick who's seated himself nearby, and they smile at the same time -- conspiratorially.

Oh, no.

"Hmm," Rick hums, finger playing with the rim of his half-full glass.  "Maybe a Cosmic Crossfade?"

"Be nice,  _Rick_ ," Morty huffs.  Their mutual knowledge of the drinks available puts the conversation far above your head, and Morty seems to catch on to your discomfort at being spoken over.  "I know!  How about an Aurora Borealis?"

"Ugh, boring," Rick says, but he's smiling.

"E-Excuse _me,_ sorry we, we can't all be seasoned alcoholics like you and yours, Rick," the bartending Morty says, and he sticks his tongue out.  The Rick, for his part, sticks his tongue out as well, and  _is that a tongue ring?_    You don't have much time to focus on it, because the Morty turns his attention back to you.  "You don't have to drink it if you don't want, but -- let me make it for you?"

You're not really sure how bars work.  People in movies always just seem to know what they want.  Isn't there a menu somewhere around here?  But the suggestion seems to be offered in good faith, and... it's not so much that you're doing it to keep a pair of strangers happy, but their excitement to indict someone new into something that feels a little like a ritual is kind of infectious.

"Sure," you say, and can't help smiling a little when they both seem cheered by your decision.

The Morty walks to the back of the bar to start working on your drink, bottles clinking and liquids sloshing.

...  And you realize you're alone with the Rick.

You glance over at him and see that he's nursing his drink.  The way his eyes remain rigidly forward makes you think that he _has_  noticed you looking at him, but that he's pretending not to notice.  

By now,  _your_ Rick would be asking what the fuck you wanted, or making fun of you for having a hundred-yard stare, or rudely waving a hand in your face.  And this is another difference that moves you toward... not really feeling _comfortable_ with the Rick, but feeling secure in the fact that he's definitely not  _yours._

 

You're wondering what he could possibly want from you when he finally stops pretending not to notice that you're staring.

"You ever drink before?" the Rick asks in that slightly-rougher-than-you-remember voice.  You wonder how his voice could have gotten to sound like so much gravel rolling down a hill. Maybe he's a smoker, you think.

"Not, um.  Recreationally, n-no."

The Rick hums at the implications therein, but doesn't press the issue.  "Let's see if you've got a taste for it, then," he says, just as the Morty returns with a swirling purple drink in a glass that fits easily between your palms.

"There you go!" the bartending Morty says.  "Let, uh -- let me know what you think!"

" _Morty_ ," the Rick says, and you both look at him when he says it.  Realizing his mistake, he rolls his eyes.  "If you're gonna give him that, at least do the -- the thing.  It's almost time anyway."

"Oh, really," the Morty says, "you're concerned about, about the  _lighting_ he drinks his --what was it? -- his, his  _boring_  drink in?"

Rick waves him away with a sour look, and the Morty laughs and makes his way through a door behind the counter.

You examine the drink carefully, but you're not really sure what you're looking for -- it looks like a purple cloud, and it smells like sweetness and alcohol.  With a bracing breath, you begin to lift the glass to your lips.

"Ah-ah-ah, wait, M-Morty," the Rick says, and he's holding an arm out like he was about to grab your wrist or your glass, but his hand stopped short.  You pause with your mouth half open, drink poised at your lips, and stare at him in indication that he should explain himself or you're going to drink it anyway.  He looks just as sour about your expectant look as he did with the other Morty's teasing.  "Ugh, it's -- just wait for Mor--for the other Morty to come back."

You set the drink down with a gentle huff, but you can't help smiling a little.

Suddenly the lights go off in the bar, and your breath hitches -- you lose your balance in your seat, only to have your shoulder caught by a steadying hand.  "Easy," Rick says, and his voice is absurdly loud in the sudden dark quiet.

You realize that the bar is not in fact  _devoid_  of light, but that black lights are illuminating everything with a faint purple glow.  When your eyes adjust, you see the other Morty rocking on his heels by the door and grinning at you -- Rick releases you once you seem stable, and you reach for the bar to readjust your seating position. 

And you can't help noticing, now that it's right in front of your nose as you adjust your seat, that your drink is now  _glowing_ and  _blue_ and  _purple_ and  _magic._  You gasp with elation and cradle your hands around it, watching the glowing liquids reflect their light onto your palms.  You're perfectly aware that the Citadel is staffed by a bunch of geniuses and their excitable wards, so the fact that some of the drinks are like  _this_  doesn't surprise you -- but you've never seen anything quite like it, and it's visually even more impressive than the Rick's drink was.  "This is  _so cool!"_

The bartending Morty grins, lopsided.  "Hah, thanks."  Despite the glow of the blacklight, you think you see his face color at the compliment.  "Not a, uh, not a bad idea after all, Rick."

Speaking of Rick, you hear him laughing quietly -- and you turn to glare at him for teasing you, but he's looking at the other Morty.  "Duh, I'm a Rick -- and more importantly, I'm -- hic! -- I'm  _me._  You think I can't -- think I don't, d-don't know how to get a Morty's dick hard?"

The bartending Morty rolls his eyes as if he's heard it all before, but you flush and scowl at the implication -- for one thing, that he's treating you like  _just another Morty,_ which, fine -- but the other, especially from someone who doesn't know you personally, is a little too inappropriate, you feel.

"Don't be  _gross,_ Rick," you say.  You don't want to get into the emotional can of worms that explaining yourself would require, but you can't go without voicing your displeasure.  You hope he drops it.

"No no, Morty, it's cool," he says, sliding over the two barstools' distance so he's sitting next to you, "g-go ahead, we won't judge you for, for poppin' a chub at a bunch of pretty lights.  You -- _hic! --_ you're among friends!"  He throws an arm over your shoulder, and that's the last straw -- you shove him away with a shout of protest and stand from your seat.

"Dude,  _quit it!"_  

He snorts, and  _now_ his face is familiar in its condescension.   _Ugh._  "Are you serious, Morty?  You've got to have heard worse from  _your_ Rick.  Unless you're from one of those dimensions where like, sexual conduct isn't spoken of under pain of death..."

"That's not the point," you insist.  "You don't get to joke with me like that when we've never -- when, when you're basically a stranger to me!"

The Morty behind the bar is looking at you in appraisal -- like maybe he understands where you're coming from, but isn't accustomed to hearing it spoken aloud.  He doesn't intervene, which frustrates you, but then -- would you?

"A stranger?" he scoffs.  "I'm a Rick, you're a Morty -- w-what else is there?  You think I don't know y-you?"  He tilts his chin toward your drink.  "That's one of the  _weakest_ drinks on the Citadel, but any -- _hic! --_ any Morty who's off his drinking game will cough it, cough it right back up.  Guaranteed, or your schmeckles back."

You glare at him.  You can't stand his shit-eating grin -- and what's worse is that you  _know_ he's just saying that stuff to goad you into drinking.  He wants to watch you chug the stupid drink down because  _he_ told you that you couldn't.  And who knows if you can or not?  You've downed some of Rick's stronger stuff after a particularly bloody inter-dimensional excursion, but that doesn't mean you can handle a drink made for a space station full of alcoholics.

You look at your drink.  Morty worked very hard on it, and it would be a shame to waste it.  But Rick is being a presumptuous dick, and you're not having a good time any more.  You glance up at the bartending Morty, partly in search of solidarity, and partly in apology.

"You know," you say to him, as if Rick isn't even there, "this drink looks really cool and all, and I-I appreciate you making it on the house and everything...  But I can't drink it."  The Morty looks away from you to give Rick a reproachful look, as if to say "look what you did" -- but he turns to you again and nods, eyebrows drawing up in sympathy.

What you  _really_ want to do with it is pour it in Rick's lap, or spit it in his face.  But even as mad as you are at being treated like one of many indistinguishable and dispensable parts, you know he hasn't really been enough of an asshole to warrant that.  So you seize your bag from its place beside your seat -- you try briefly to think of a witty oneliner to depart with, and then discard the thought.

Instead you face Rick head-on, and he looks startled by something in your eyes.  You don't wonder what it is.  "Why -- why don't you go fuck with someone from your own d-dimension?   _Dick._ "

The bartending Morty explodes into breathless laughter, and he tries vainly to crush the mutinous sounds back into his mouth as Rick glares at him.

You don't stick around to see how they sort it out.

* * *

You're halfway down the strip before you realize you don't know where you're going, what you're going to do, and that you barely got any information out of those two at the bar.

"Good job, Morty, you've -- you've really got everything together.  Just, coming here, wow.  What a great idea."

You toy with the strap of your backpack.  The portal gun is still inside.  Even as you consider it, your stomach clenches with anxiety at the thought: you could just go back.  Time may pass at different measures between dimensions, but you can't have been gone for more than a day.  You could just say you needed some time to yourself...  

"Hey!"

You flinch and slowly turn, and though you'd heard his voice, you're still surprised to see the Morty from the bar.  He's got his apron slung over his shoulder -- but even if he hadn't, you'd recognize the distinctive haircut.  And the fact that he's talking to you at all is a clue.

If anything, you had expected the Rick to come harass you, not the Morty -- since...  "W-Wait," you say as he jogs to a halt in front of you, "aren't you working right now?"

The Morty shrugs.  "I made Rick watch the counter."  He turns that sympathetic look toward you again.  "So, do you want to talk about...?"

"I-I just," you say, and falter.  "...  You heard him," you mutter helplessly, wringing your backpack straps in your hands.

"Yeah, but I'm  _used_ to him," the Morty says.  "What was it that bothered  _you?"_

"It's just -- we're not all the same!" you say, and it sounds foolish to your own ears, even as the other Morty gives you a look that says, 'sorry to break this to you, but...'.  You shake your head.  "I mean -- okay, even though we  _are_  technically the same people, and that makes us really, _really_ similar -- each of us is still an, an  _individual person,_ and -- like, if you're close friends with a person who has a twin, and then they're... gone, you can't just pick up where you left off with their twin, you know?"

The other Morty is silent, as if waiting to see if you'll continue.  "You must  _really_ be new," he finally says.

You sigh, defeated.  "Please don't patronize me," you say, having lost the thread of thought and the will to continue arguing.

"No, I didn't -- I mean..."  He pauses to collect his thoughts, and starts again.  "I'm not saying you're alone in thinking that way, but -- but the Morties whose Ricks are allied with the Citadel don't really, talk about this kind of thing until they've drunk themselves under the table.  But you're totally sober, so..."

You shift uncomfortably.  You haven't really entertained the idea long enough to become worried about, but now you're wondering if you're even allowed to be here -- and what the consequences will be if you're not.

"...  Your Rick is a rogue, right?"

You blow out a gust of air.  "Yeah, the Council's brought us in a few times," you say with a shrug.  "Not that it matters now..."

His brow furrows.  "So he...?"

You feel tears well up in your eyes.  He can't possibly know, whether -- whether Rick abandoned you or died on you, and you can't rely on your similarities to let him figure it out on his own.  "He's dead.  I..." You sniff miserably.  You feel bad for dumping this on a Morty you barely know, but you can't hold it in any more.  "It's my fault..."

"Oh, Morty..." he says.  He slowly reaches out to place a hand on your shoulder, giving you ample time to protest or shake your head -- but you allow it.  His hand is warm, and his calloused fingers rasp against your cotton tee shirt.  "That sucks so bad, I'm really sorry...  But _please_ don't blame yourself, it's..."

"Y-You don't unders-s- _stand,"_  you find yourself saying.  "He was  _relying_ on me, and... and  _I--_ "

"Hey," the Morty interrupts gently as your words give way to unintelligible hiccuping.  "It's okay if you can't talk about it right now."

You sniff and swipe your fist across your eyes.  Take a deep breath.  "I know he hated this place, and he would hate that I'm here, but I...  I didn't know where else to _go_."  You gasp deeply and swallow around the lump in your throat.  "Rick's... Rick was my best friend.  I'll never replace him, but I... I couldn't leave that life completely behind.  You -- y-y'know...?"

The Morty nods, and he takes a clean-looking cloth out of his apron pocket and offers it to you.  You're grateful for it -- it's a little rough, but your face doesn't feel so sticky with salty tears by the time you're done with it.

"Thanks," you murmur bashfully, handing back the cloth, which he tucks back into his apron.

"It's, it's cool man -- I just want to make sure you're okay."  He's silent for a moment, looking thoughtful.  "So, sorry, I'm confused -- you had a rogue Rick, but the Council came to recruit you anyway?"

"What?  No," you say.  Did the Council of Ricks reach out to Rickless Morties?  Was that a thing?  "I just... you know..." you trail off.  You're grateful to this Morty -- but you're not sure who you should tell that you've kind of inherited your Rick's portal gun.  What if Morties are second-class citizens who can't _have_ portal guns, and someone tries to take it from you?  "... made my own way here," you finish unsatisfyingly.

"Wait, you found a way to come here -- and you came here on your  _own?"_   he asks in awe, and you allow yourself a small, watery smile at his esteem.  You nod, unable to manage anything more, and he shakes your shoulders gently.  " _You_ are an  _exceptional_  Morty.  And don't worry, they'll overlook it if you're not registered for a while, especially if you steer clear of trouble -- Ricks are always forgetting to register their Morties when they join the Council."

You're unsure if that thought is comforting or disheartening.

"But in the meantime... and I know we just met," Morty prefaces his next statement, mindful perhaps of treating you too much like a long-time acquaintance, "but uh, you could stay with me until you get your citizenship -- and if they give you your own place, we could still hang and stuff.  I'm  _more_ than happy to show you the ropes around here.  The Citadel may be a safe haven for Ricks and Morties, but it's still -- there's things that take getting used to."

The generosity of his offer makes you unsteady.  "Is -- is that okay?  I wouldn't want to, t-to be in your way or anything..."

"No  _way_ \-- honestly, I'm interested in hearing your take on everything, so don't hold back," he says.  He tilts his head back toward the bar, and there's a mischeivous glint in his eye.  "But for now... wanna go watch Rick deal with a bunch of drunk assholes?"

" _Yes,_ " you say, unselfconsciously vindictive, and you follow him back to the bar while he talks about all the places on the Citadel you've just  _got_ to see, and maybe he can show you some of them tomorrow.

* * *

Rick looks up when the two of you return, and as he glances between you his eyes narrow at your twin grins.

The other Morty sticks his tongue out -- Rick mimics the expression, and that's the end of it.

"Wh-What the fuck is this?" A Rick at the counter demands -- he's got a black eye and he's waving a flask with a triangular base around, splashing alcohol on the counter.

"It's the drink you ordered, you forgetful fuck.   _Christ,"_ Rick grumbles as he polishes a glass.

"Sh-shouldn't he cut him off?" you ask the Morty beside you as you both take seats on the far side of the bar.

The Morty gives you a look that says 'are you kidding me?' and shakes his head.  "Okay,  _that_ one I don't blame you for -- like, conventional logic would tell you that.  But um, considering the Citadel of Ricks is run by a bunch of a-alcoholics with, with s-s-s..."  You glance at him in curiosity -- that's the most you've heard him stutter all evening.  He catches your eye and swallows, continues with, "self-destructive tendencies, uh, it's actually frowned upon to turn away a paying customer.  And by 'frowned upon' I mean 'illegal'." _  
_

"J-jeez," you say, watching the Rick who couldn't remember what he'd ordered spill his drink all down his shirt.  "That's... kind of messed up."

"It is  _extremely_ messed up," Morty agrees.  "Hey, Rick -- make me a White Russian?"

Rick sends a withering stare toward the young man at your side, who responds by fluttering his eyelashes charmingly.  Rick rolls his eyes.  "Ugh, I can't believe you're gonna make me make you an  _Earth_ drink."

"Aurora Borealis is an Earth drink, dick."

"Yeah, that's why it's stupid," Rick says.  Your eyes meet as he's reaching down to grab a bottle from under the counter, and he looks away first.  It looks like he's biting his cheek.

You end up getting a virgin strawberry daiquiri.  When you make the request, Rick looks like he is struggling _so hard_ not to make a joke about how you're a baby, or a virgin, or you have no alcohol tolerance -- but your earlier outburst seems to have put him off his appetite for humor (and you're pretty sure your eyes are still red-ringed despite your best efforts to tidy up in the bathroom), so he admirably holds his tongue and leaves the light-hearted ribbing to the Morty beside you.

He tries to tell you a little bit about what's what around the Citadel, but the din of the bar only grows louder as more patrons file in, and you content yourself with people watching and only making the occasional observation, shouted over the noise.

The Rick who had forgotten what drink he ordered eventually slumps out of his stool and onto the floor, and one of the other Ricks -- you think they actually came in together -- tosses the insensate one over his shoulder to wait outside for a cab.

You watch as a bunch of Ricks and a handful of Morties start in on a drinking contest in the corner.  One of the Morties throws up, and Rick has to come out from behind the counter to mop it up -- Morty hops over the bar and fields the more ornery patrons until he returns, but apart from that he doesn't leave your side all evening.

The excitement of the evening wears you down by the time the clock on the wall reads 1:00 -- fairly early even for you, but you've had a rough day.  Morty bids Rick a pleasant evening when you inform him that you'd like to get some rest and escorts you out of the bar just as a fight seems to be breaking out.

You were wondering why the Citadel seemed so quiet during the day -- it turns out the night life is where it's at.  Establishments whose lights had been dimmed in the artificial sunlight now glow with neon lights and pulse hard with music from all over the universe.  The smells of fried food, alcohol, and vomit pervade the air, and the sounds of raucous partying and sirens blare in the cavernous commercial level.

"Are you sure you're cool crashing at my place?"  Morty asks again as he beckons you into an elevator.  "I can put you up in a motel if you're not comfortable with it..."

"N-nah, I'm cool," you assure him.  "Um, but I appreciate you asking.  And uh, s-sticking around all evening, and -- and talking to me and stuff."

He waves a hand in dismissal.  "Don't even sweat it.  The universe is a scary and chaotic place, so we gotta look out for each other."

You smile at him.  "Y-Yeah.  I like the idea of, o-of Morties helping Morties."  You feel your fatigued body fill with warmth at the comforting thought.

"Speaking of which," he says, "and maybe this feels dehumanizing to you, but -- around here it's common to refer to Ricks and Morties by our dimension's name.  It's just easier, you know -- ?  And," he adds, "it's... honestly the only way to keep track of each other.  Like, if I stopped working at Rick's tomorrow, how would you find me?  Asking around for a 'Morty'?"

You hum thoughtfully.  "That makes sense."

He seems gratified at your understanding.  "Great, okay, so -- I'm Morty Smith, dimension D-15 Omicron-6."

" _Omicron?!"_ you repeat.  That is just too cool.  Holy shit that's not _fair._

"Yeah!"  He laughs.  "I think latin letters distinguish the dimensions further from the original uh, regular alphabet dimension.  D-15 is fine, for short, though."  He tilts his chin up encouragingly.  "And you?"

You straighten up.  "R-right!  Let me see..."  You feel foolish for having to wrack your brain for your dimension's name, but you know it's in there somewhere...  "Ah! I remember!"  You place a hand out to shake with Morty, and he grins at the gesture.  "Morty Smith, L-122!"

Morty seizes your hand in his, and it's warm and firm and reassuring.

"Welcome aboard the Citadel, L-122."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man that was way longer than I expected it to be. This chapter could use some polish, but I think I got out everything I wanted to: sequence of events, world-building, foreshadowing... that sort of stuff!
> 
> I hope you guys like it so far! I realized while I was writing that the point of view I chose made each character interaction feel sort of like... a dating game? Which, the purpose of this fic is NOT to establish an endgame relationship for protagonist Morty, but it was an amusing observation in the moment. And hey, if you're really invested in a ship coming to fruition, voice your opinion! See what happens. 8)


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